


Sonata

by thimble



Series: SASO 2017 [16]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 01:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12266496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: Midorima has no description for Akashi, mid-solo, other than that of an emperor or a king, speaking through his violin as his subjects listen.For a moment, though, as he silently reads the set list for the upcoming concert, Akashi sheds his regalia and becomes something akin to a lost child.Then Akashi picks up his cloak and rights the crown on his head, and the moment leaves as quietly as it arrived.[akamido AU drabble dump for saso fills.01: symphony02: concerti03: nocturne04: requiem]





	1. Symphony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [this](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=10976171#cmt10976171) prompt.

Like all things that concern Akashi Seijuurou, the change does not become apparent right away. Akashi, in essence, is subtle until he's not, upon which he directs every eye in the room to himself.   
  
But capable as he might be of turning heads wherever he goes with the sheer magnitude of his presence, he is otherwise a quiet man; quiet not for a lack of confidence, but for an excess of grandeur. Midorima has no description for Akashi, mid-solo, other than that of an emperor or a king, speaking through his violin as his subjects listen.   
  
(If anyone ever told Akashi this, he would tilt his head and smile in that quizzical way of his, as if he hasn't a clue.)  
  
For a moment, though, as he silently reads the set list for the upcoming concert, Akashi sheds his regalia and becomes something akin to a lost child. Uncertainty passes across his features like ink in water, spreading before it dissolves.   
  
Like Midorima said, the change is subtle, something that no one but those beside him could've seen, and only if they knew him as well as Midorima does.   
  
Then Akashi picks up his cloak and rights the crown on his head, and the moment leaves as quietly as it arrived.   
  


* * *

  
  
Midorima does not ask him about it. It simply isn't done between the two of them. He does not envy the camaraderie of the other sections, soft and private laughter filling the silence between notes during rehearsal, nor the friendly rivalry they tend to develop among themselves like those idiots on cello. The piano was meant to be be solitary in the first place, and it isn't seldom that he thinks Akashi might feel the same about being concertmaster.   
  
Though whatever Akashi's feelings may be, he still speaks in a tone gentler than Midorima's could ever attempt, possessing more authority that Midorima's could ever have. Midorima has his place at the outskirts of the stage, Akashi belongs in the center, and they can meet in the middle when rehearsal's done.  
  
The conductor dismisses them and the symphony of instruments in unison is replaced by the cacophony of packing them up. Aomine walks past him, Momoi's double bass in one hand and his cello in the other, while Kuroko tails behind with his viola still in his grip, as if he still wants to squeeze in practice time in some hidden corner. Kise and the other flutists follow suit, their chatter an irritant in Midorima's ears, keeping him in place until they're gone. As if on cue, Murasakibara comes up to him, speaking around a lollipop.  
  
"Mido-chin, I'm coming with you."  
  
"I don't recall the two of us making plans together."  
  
"Not just you," says Murasakibara in a drawl. "Aka-chin said he needs more rosin, and I need a new mallet."  
  
"Akashi did not mention—"  
  
"Ah, I think Atsushi may have assumed you would still accompany us to the store," interrupts Akashi, violin slung over his shoulder. His smile is pleasant, anticipatory. Midorima sighs, tucking his sheet music folder under his arm.   
  
"If I must."  
  
He lets them walk ahead, Murasakibara complaining about one thing or another and Akashi nodding in commiseration, and though the thought crosses his mind more than once when he and Akashi find a moment alone, he does not ask about it.   
  


* * *

  
  
"Something's on your mind, Shintarou."  
  
It is the day of the concert, and the atmosphere is of equal parts excitement and nervousness, neither of which Midorima feels; he has done everything humanly possible in preparation for this, and all he has to do is exactly what's expected of him. It was not in the orchestra's best interest for Akashi to overturn that with distractions, so he must have another motive up his sleeve.   
  
"And I assume you already know what it is," says Midorima, and Akashi's in amused expression is the  _yes, I do_  Midorima expected to hear.  
  
"You're worried about me. You needn't be. The set list is perfect, and the ensemble is in top condition. It was a moment of weakness, which I have already overcome."  
  
Midorima says nothing. Akashi's voice lowers as he speaks.   
  
"The final piece was performed at the last concert I went to with my mother. She once said it was her favorite. For that reason, I haven't touched it since."  
  
_Since_ , in this instance, is too big a word to be contained in a few syllables. It spans a period of time that's immeasurable; it contains grief, and healing, and how neither of these processes ever really end. Midorima would put a hand on Akashi's shoulder, but it simply isn't done, between the two of them.   
  
Instead, he says, "your hard work will not go unrewarded." It is what he himself would like to hear, and he begins to think it may not be what Akashi might have wanted until Akashi grants him a smile, as simple and as uncomplicated as hearing Vivaldi in the spring.  
  
"Yes, I suppose it won't."


	2. Concerti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a remix of [this](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22341.html?thread=12652357#cmt12652357) fill.

Like all the times before it, it is Midorima who finds himself outside Akashi's door. Their days in middle school had him in this very spot, waiting to be let in, on the occasion that Akashi would invite him over to play (shogi, or music, or both.) In Midorima's opinion, the school grounds would've sufficed for doing either of these things, but Akashi would insist on his company, and Midorima has always found it difficult to deny Akashi much of anything.   
  
Now, his company is not warranted or asked for, but he still finds himself outside Akashi's door; still finds himself waiting to be let in, in a metaphorical sense as much as in the physical. The Winter Cup is over, and so is the part of their lives they have all spent pretending they aren't friends. Or so Midorima hopes.   
  
Much of it hinges on this moment—on this door, opening, and on Akashi, smiling upon seeing Midorima at the entrance to his room. (Midorima still knows the way to it by heart.)  
  
"It's been a while, Midorima," says Akashi, sweet as a greeting, soft as an an apology.  
  
Unlike all the times before it, they do not play either shogi, or music, as if to say that they will have other times ahead to revisit their old routines. Midorima seems to have walked in on one of Akashi's calligraphy sessions, all his previous work not strewn about the room but piled neatly beside him after they have dried. Nothing but silence passes between them as Akashi hands him his own parchment, brush, and inkwell, and nothing but wind whispers in the room as they sit across from each other, legs tucked neatly underneath themselves.   
  
Akashi smiles again, quick, familiar, and lacking the sharpness he'd worn this past year. "Shall we start?"  
  
Midorima nods, and the two of them bow their heads and busy themselves in their own worlds—or at least Akashi does, because Midorima cannot ignore his presence if he tried. He takes a breath, glancing down at the blank piece of paper he'd been given, wondering if he has anything significant to write.  
  
In the end, he takes the brush and carves out a single word in black, stark against the whiteness of the parchment. His strokes are bold, as if he could cover every mistake the two of them have made, every regret they've harbored, everything they could ever be sorry for, in a few lines of heartache and ink.   
  
When he's done, he sets the brush aside, waiting, once again, for Akashi to notice.  _Spring_ , his paper says, with the sort of bravery only beginnings ever have.  
  
He wonders if it will Akashi will smile upon seeing it, and he wonders what that smile will say now.


	3. Nocturne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a remix of [this](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22341.html?thread=13572933#cmt13572933) fill.

He has always been adept at pretending—that nothing is wrong, that someone is not gone, that his insides don't hurt. This skill has carried him through life, with all its banal cruelties, just fine, and he doesn't expect it to fail him.   
  
So far, it hasn't. So far, normalcy, apart from the obvious gaps, comes easy. So far, he goes through his days with no one the wiser, unless they know him, or them, well enough to have attended the funeral, and that's how he prefers it.   
  
(Always preferred to suffer in private, to shoot hoop after consecutive hoop all alone in an empty gymnasium, acting as if landing the next basket was all that mattered even when his world was caving in.)  
  
And those who know him well don't say a word, however kind or well-meaning, having anticipated its reception. Sympathy still swims in their eyes but he can pretend not to see that either. This way, the earth can still turn, instead of tilting on its axis.   
  
If he were one of his patients, he would have talked his own ear off in reprimand long ago. Ignoring the pain does not mean the injury no longer exists; walking around with an open wound means he'll bleed out sooner rather than later, leaving behind a trail of red on the street.  
  
But how else can he reconcile reality with this absence? This ache, with his every day? He can't. He won't. Not yet.  
  
First, he has an instrument to acquaint himself with, a sound that he's been longing to hear, ever since—  
  
The case of it is untouched, where it's propped up against the wall in the corner of their bedroom. A light coating of dust has settled on the fabric, but he sets it on the clean sheets, reverently, as he unfastens its lock. Inside, an old violin rests, a heirloom with nowhere else to go.   
  
A single regret scratches at the surface of his heart: he never did take the time to learn it, even if Akashi could accompany him on piano, a kindness that did not go both ways.   
  
It's not too late (except that it is) to start.  
  
He knows the basics, just from watching—where he should press down, or how he should hold the bow. He has the fingers for it, he thinks, long and deft, and wonders if it's something he'd thought up on his own, or something someone else once mentioned.  
  
With his eyes closed, he draws the bow over the strings, his fingering tentative but his notes sustained, into a child's practice piece. It's clumsy, like the way he loved; lonely, like the way he misses.   
  
Someday he will manage a nocturne, and make it easier to pretend Akashi is here all the more, but for now his mind merely sings along to the rhyme:  _little star, how I wonder where you are._


	4. Requiem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a remix of [this](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11105963#cmt11105963) fill.
> 
> an au of _orange_ by takano ichigo.

i.   
  
Midorima has his doubts from day one. It's precisely what the letter on his bedside table had warned him against, and perhaps that should have convinced him that its contents are telling the truth.  _Believe yourself, if nothing else,_  says a passage, in his own neat handwriting. Perhaps this other self finds this easier to do, but it's a tall order from himself at twelve years old, when he is immobilized by something as simple as going without the day's lucky item. He lives by the stars, not by some mysterious letter from the future, despite how accurate it is to have predicted the skip of his heartbeat at a certain red-haired boy's kind eyes, and even kinder smile. 

 

 

  
  
ii.  
  
 _Watch over him_ , the letter goes on to tell Midorima, which is ridiculous on many fronts. For one, there is no field in which Akashi would do better with Midorima's guidance—he already excels in them all. For another, it assumes that Midorima is capable of looking elsewhere when Akashi is in the room. Perhaps watching Akashi, period, would suffice, even if a voice in his head chides him for lying to himself.   
  
 _You will regret standing at the sidelines._  

 

 

  
  
iii.  
  
Some call them miracles, and others call them monsters, but everyone would agree that the Teikou Middle School Basketball Club surpasses expectation.   
  
Their own, especially so.   
  
Midorima feels the change in himself before he sees it in anyone else, though they are not too far behind. They used to be content with winning matches in the morning and walking home together in the afternoon, but not anymore. With growth comes consequence, and with greater heights come a higher place to fall.   
  
 _Stop them from fighting._    
  
This, at least, his future self had prophesied. But knowing it would happen is different from preventing it. Seeing it all fall apart does not mean he knows how to put them back together.   
  
Aomine isolates himself in his tower. Kise becomes not unlike a cat toying with its prey. Kuroko fades into the background. Momoi cries when she thinks no one is looking. Murasakibara challenges Akashi (and loses). Akashi wins, above all else (at a cost).  
  
Through it all, Midorima watches from his peripheral, choosing not to get involved.  
  
 _Do not take the easy way out._  
  
The easy way, he reasons, would be to cut all ties with all of them, and he's still here, isn't he?

 

 

  
  
iv.  
  
They graduate, and get as far away from each other as possible. It's just as well; Akashi is no longer the boy Midorima used to play shogi or piano with, and his smile has turned sharp at the corners, making Midorima's heart skip for a different reason entirely. He keeps the letters, dog-eared as they are, close to himself at all times, except he no longer reads them. It's not that they've stopped making sense; it's that he seems to be hurtling towards the same ending, and can no longer bear to watch the collision.  
  
At training camp, Kuroko tells him something he should have already known. Kuroko's letters from the future are much less harsh than his own, but no less pleading.   
  
 _Please save Akashi-kun._  
  
In return, Midorima reveals his own, but the shared secret does not lift a weight off his chest as much as it adds another.   
  
"I didn't know what to do." He can't look at Kuroko, who, by all intents and purposes, is just another friend he has failed. "I still don't."  
  
He'd been too young, back then, to regret what he had and hadn't done. He does not have the excuse now.


End file.
